


Glass of Water, A

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Pre-White House (West Wing)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-11-23
Updated: 2002-11-23
Packaged: 2019-05-15 06:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14784845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: I didn't plan for Mr. McGarry to show up at my apartment. Drunk, at that.





	Glass of Water, A

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**A Glass Of Water**

**by:** Baked Goldfish 

**Category:** Margaret (her POV), Leo. Non-shipper (not really), non-friendship. Pre-White House, and you'll figure out when soon enough.  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** I didn't plan for Mr. McGarry to show up at my apartment. Drunk, at that.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own them. Please don't sue me. If you do, all I have to offer is some granola cereal and a calculus textbook.  


"Mr. McGarry, you've got Capitol Beat in half an hour," I told him, striding into his office. I wasn't looking at him; I was too busy editing his schedule. As usual, he had too much on his plate for the day. Swear, if it wasn't the pills or the alcohol, it was work. Always overdoing something. 

I guess I should be glad that it was work today. 

I looked up from the schedule. He looked drained, sitting at his desk with his head propped up on his hands, tie half-undone, jacket draped over the back of the chair. 

"Mr. McGarry?" I asked, a little more quietly than before. "Sir?" 

"Jus'. . . a headache, Margaret," he mumbled through his hands. "I'll be fine for, um. In a little bit." 

"You've got the talk show in an hour," I told him again. I pondered asking if I should cancel that, too. 

He looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and drawn features. "A what?" Yup, consider it rescheduled. I'd just have to tell the Capitol Beat guys that something's come up. 

"Never mind," I told him. "It's tomorrow, I think." 

He nodded and put his head back down. "Okay." 

"Do you need anything, sir?" 

"No. Wait, glass of water." He fished something out of his pocket. 

Yeah, so I was wrong about it being work today. Sue me. 

Look, it's not my place to ask questions, right? So I don't. I mean, he usually gets the job done, and well, at that. Everyone's got their demons, their skeletons in the closet. I've got 'em. The girl I replaced had 'em. My boss, the Secretary of Labor, he's got 'em. I don't make judgment calls, usually. 

I got him the glass of water. It doesn't make a difference. He would've dry swallowed the pill if I hadn't gotten him the water. He wouldn't have taken it with scotch, though. I mean, he's not stupid. Sharp like a fox, him. 

That was a mixed metaphor, wasn't it? 

So, I cancelled his appearance on Capitol Beat. Told them something came up. It's the truth, anyway. Something came up. It's called a killer hangover. I just didn't tell them that much. 

I told him, "You've got a nine o'clock with Senator Watkins." He looked at me, a dazed expression on his face. "Senator Watkins. About the emissions bill," I prompted. 

"The emissions bill," he repeated, surer. "Right. I've got a. . . a thing," he said, rifling through the papers on his desk. "Here it is. Summarize it for me, would you?" he asked, handing the report to me. 

I summarized it. Made sure to include his scribbled-in notes on the margins. It didn't take too long, and I had a copy of the summary on his desk within the half-hour. I kept the original on my own desk, and on my computer's hard drive. I filed away a second copy in his filing cabinet, and a third in my own. Never can have too many copies, you know. 

Nine o'clock rolled around. I was munching on a bran muffin, since I'd had to skip breakfast. Senator Watkins arrived, punctual, neat, and crisp. I don't think you can use the word 'crisp' to describe a person, but he was, so I will. 

"Good morning, Margaret," he greeted cheerily, his ruddy face morphing into a grin. "Is he in?" 

I got up and went to Mr. McGarry's door. "Sir? You're nine o'clock." 

"My what?" 

"You're nine--Senator Watkins, sir." 

"Oh. Send him in," he replied, putting the scotch away. 

I sent him in and went back to my bran muffin. 

{part 2} 

I planned it well. I had a dress, I had the shoes, I had the purse to match the shoes and the dress, I had the make-up to match the purse that matched the purse that matched the shoes and the dress. I planned it well. 

Earrings. I had to get earrings. In my room; I walked into my room and pulled out the perfect set. They matched just right. 

Jim called back, earlier. I got his message on the answering machine. Dinner in Georgetown, and not just at McDonald's. Real dinner. At a real restaurant. And I had the dress, the shoes, the purse, and the make-up. And there would be dancing, a live band. 

I'm a good planner, I tell ya. A great planner, even. And Jim and I would reap the benefits of my great planning abilities tonight. I planned everything, except the randomness that Jim would bring. That would be a surprise, and I liked it that way. I would enjoy myself, a wonderful escape from handling Mr. McGarry's appointments. 

There was a knock on the door, but I knew Jim wouldn't have been early. He was one of those types who followed the school of fashionably late. If anything, he would have shown up fifteen minutes after he said he would. I knew that; I planned for it. I'm a great planner. 

I didn't plan for Mr. McGarry to show up at my apartment. Drunk, at that. At six-thirty p.m. 

At six-thirty p.m. Jim was supposed to come pick me up at seven. Seven fifteen, but still. And here was my boss, soused and stumbling at my door. 

What was I supposed to do? Just leave him there like a common bum? He wasn't even dressed like a bum. He was dressed like he was going to work. 

"Margaret," he slurred, stumbling into my apartment. "I'm sorry 'bout this, but I couldn't reme-reme-member where I parked." He crashed into me, his arms tangled with my own. 

"Mr. McGarry," I began, trying to guide him to the couch. 

"That's a pretty dress," he commented, staggering into what probably seemed like an upright position to him. "You going out somewhere?" He fingered the material. I felt sick. 

"As a matter of fact," I muttered, shoving him onto the couch. He fell with a thud, facedown onto the cushions. It was a few minutes before I heard him start to snore. 

I had a couple of phone calls to make. First, Jenny. I had her number on speed dial, right under the pizza delivery guys. She picked up on the first ring. 

"Hello?" 

"Hi, Jenny. He's over here," I stated, somewhat matter-of-factly. "I think he's gonna crash here tonight. He's passed out on my couch." 

"Oh, Margaret," she said, with remorse that I knew was sincere. "I'm sorry. . . I can come get him-" 

"No, it's okay," I assured her. Glancing back at him, I added, "You probably wouldn't be able to move him, anyway. Sleeping like a baby." 

"You sure?" She was still uncertain. She always was, whenever Mr. McGarry came to land at my place. 

"I'm sure, Jenny. You have a good night, now. I'll be over to get one of his suits in the morning." 

"If you're sure, Margaret. . . good night, hon." 

She was gone with a click. I pushed the plunger down, and dialed another number. 

"Hello, Jim? Hi, it's me. . . look, something's come up. My boss. . . he, um, needs me tonight. Can we reschedule? Thanks a bunch, Jim, I really appreciate it. Bye, now." 

I looked down at the earrings that I still held in my hand. Sitting on the arm of the sofa, I threw the gold loops to the ground and sighed. The only music I would be hearing was the sound of my boss conked out on my sofa. 

I pulled off his shoes, pulled off his jacket, pulled off his tie. He was a dead weight, snoring and mumbling incoherently. A familiar song. Somewhere in the course of my taking care of him, he woke up. I felt it before I saw it, as his hands started on my dress again. I swatted them away, the same way I always did. 

I always let it slide. He never remembered anything in the morning anyway; just had a killer hangover and thanked me for letting him crash. It never meant anything, I know he loves his wife Jenny dearly and would never be able to. . . well, to cheat on her, for lack of a better term. He'd stop. I'm sure of it; if I didn't stop him, he'd stop himself. It's just the way he is. 

I was, of course, exactly right. He knew nothing in the morning, except for the fact that he had a crick in his neck and was sleeping at his secretary's apartment. I got him some coffee and toast and drove up to his house for the suit. Jenny was there with a hug, the suit, and a 'how is he'. I smiled and told her he was fine. Which was the truth; he was fine. Just a little hung over. She smiled, handed me the suit, offered me breakfast. I told her I had to get back, as he had an early appointment with a member of the House. I don't think Mallory was in. Just as well, I suppose. I always feel so bad when I see her. 

Mr. McGarry was rubbing his forehead, laid out on my couch when I got back. "Margaret," he mumbled. "What do I have this morning?" 

"Nothing," I lied. I could deal with Congressman Briscoe. I knew exactly what it was that Mr. McGarry wanted to tell her, so I could just give her the rundown and discuss it with her. I mean, it's not as if I've not done it before. Just tell her what Mr. McGarry would tell her. 

"You sure?" he asked, not really paying attention. 

I handed him his new set of clothes. "You can go change in the bedroom. You don't have anything on your schedule till noon, sir." Changed a few things up, moved some people here, dropped some there. And it became the truth. 

I'm a great planner. And I'm a flexible one, too. 

{part 3} 

"No, ma'am, Mr. McGarry will not agree with that," I stated firmly, barely looking up from the report I was annotating. 

Congressman Briscoe sighed loudly. "Well, can I at least *see* Mr. McGarry?" 

"He's a very busy man, ma'am. Something came up last night, and he's not taking his appointments all this morning," I replied curtly. Well, I *was* curt. I'd spent the better part of last night making sure my boss, an appointee of the leader of the free world, didn't drown in his own vomit. I was feeling a bit persnippety, and I'd be damned if the rest of the world wasn't gonna know it. 

She got up, thanked me for her time, and left. I nodded upon her exit, waited a few moments, and went to my boss' door. Knocked; no answer. Knocked again; again, no answer. Finally, I just opened the damned door and walked inside. 

He was working on something, taking notes with red ink on the pages in front of him. "They can get rid of that," he muttered, crossing out some line of text. "And that can be lowered. . ." 

It took him a little while to notice me standing beside his desk. "Hey, Margaret," he greeted warmly. "I have a meeting?" 

"No, sir," I answered. "Congressman Briscoe just wanted to drop this off." I handed him her report. 

He took it, and his eyes widened. "Oh, crap. I had a meeting with-" 

"She was unexpectedly busy, sir, and only had time to drop off the report," I interrupted. "She said whatever you advised the President to do, she'd support, sir." 

He nodded and relaxed a little. Putting the report down, he asked, "So, what's next?" 

"I rescheduled your Capitol Beat appearance, you've got it in about half an hour." 

"Okay. What's the discussion on?" 

"Raising the minimum wage." I handed him a packet of information, and he got his things together. 

He was brilliant on the show. He knocked down any and every argument against him and the President. It was his usual showing. Never stumbled, not once. He was brilliant. When he was finished, he got up, pulled out his handkerchief, and patted his brow. As if it were actually work for him. That show was child's play, but he'd never admit it. He's too proud to be prideful. 

I handed him a bottle of water as we walked back to the car. He got in, unscrewed the top, and took a swig. It was just water. He didn't need anything else after that show. He was on a natural high. 

I should schedule him to do more of that sort of thing. Might keep him off all that crap he does. 

Anyway. We got back to the office in a timely manner, and he went on with his day, meeting upon meeting upon meeting. He worked, all day. He never asked for a glass of water. I never found him head-down on his desk, or staring off in the distance in some sort of haze. It was all work. 

It was a great day. And then, at five o'clock, it was over. I went home, and started to get ready. Jim was going to be over, and we were going to do tonight what we missed last night, Mr. McGarry be damned. 

I wore the dress that matched with the purse that matched with the shoes that matched with the make-up. Dinner was fantastic. I mean, utterly fantastic. We danced, and he bought the best wine. The waiter looked at him as if to say, nobody buys that wine, it's too expensive. But he bought it, without a moment's hesitation. We demolished it, and went to the restaurant's wet-bar for martinis. I don't think I'd smiled so much in my entire life. 

He got a cab and took me home, and walked me up to my apartment. I admit, we were both drunk. Mostly on just having been out together for the first time in a while, though. I know we woke up some of my neighbors. We must've, with how loud we were laughing. He gave me a kiss. A soft, chaste kiss on the lips that left me wanting just a little bit more. But, being a gentleman, Jim left after that. 

I lay down on my sofa, thinking of the evening. Yeah, it's sad and sorry. But it's what I did. I couldn't think of a happier time this year. I kept staring at my kind of dirty ceiling, and I didn't notice the phone ringing until the third ring. I picked up before my answering machine could. 

"Hello?" I asked sweetly. 

"Margaret?" 

My mood dropped immediately. "Mr. McGarry, what is it?" I asked curtly. 

"I'm. . . ahh, I need a ride." 

"Call a taxi." 

"Really, Margaret," he pleaded. 

I shook my head, even though I knew he couldn't see me. "No, sir, I'm drunk. I can't drive to pick you up anyway." I tried to change my tone, tried to be sweet. It halfway worked. "Do you want me to call Jenny?" 

"No!" was his quick, kind of scared, reply. "She. . . um. Don't call her. Please." 

"Okay, okay," I said in my most soothing voice. Which wasn't too soothing to begin with, and wasn't too soothing drunk. "I'll call you a cab. Where are you?" I quickly jotted down the place; I knew the address. It was one of his frequently visited bars. After telling him to stay put, I hung up and dialed a cab service. 

A few minutes later, I heard a knock on my door. I knew it was going to be him. He never went home these days, not at night. Not after he was good and drunk. I guess Jenny threw him out at nights, didn't want to deal with him. I didn't blame her, but I wished he would just wind up in a hotel room and not my apartment. I didn't want to deal with him when I was sober, and I was more than just tipsy that night. 

"Hey, Ma'gret," he slurred, leaning heavily against my doorframe. I wondered how he got up the stairs without tripping. 

"Leo," I said. I caught my slip-up with the name, but he didn't. He was further gone than I was. I decided to pretend like I didn't slip up in the first place. 

"C'n I stay here tonight?" He looked up at me, pleadingly. He looked lost. I nodded, and stepped out of his way. I would let him stay for the night, as usual. Because when he looked at you with those bloodshot eyes, there's not much else you could do other than let him into your home and get him cleaned up. 

And sometimes, just sometimes, other things would happen. 

{part 4} 

"Jesus fucking Christ," I muttered for the third time upon waking up. I was laying in bed, on my side. Naked. Mr. McGarry--well, I guess that now it's okay to call him Leo--was laying on his side, next to me. Also naked. Nothing between us, at all, and, while I couldn't remember much from the night before, I didn't really need to. 

I slipped out of bed, self-conscious, and reached for my clothes. Looking around the pile, I found out that at least we used protection. I picked it up and threw it in the bathroom trashcan. Kneeling by the toilet, I retched. I retched and retched and retched because I thought that if I didn't stop him, he would stop himself. And here I was, with the knowledge that he couldn't even stop himself. We were drunk. I'm fairly sure he wouldn't have. . . you know. Forced it. We were drunk. It happened. 

I cleaned myself up. Washed my face, brushed my teeth. Went back to that bedroom, where he was snoring as if nothing had happened. Pulled his shorts back on, and his undershirt. He didn't wake up. He wouldn't have. I knew that he wouldn't. 

I called Jenny. She was, as usual, waiting with the suit, the hug, the 'how is he' and 'would you like some breakfast'. I got away as quickly as possible, hoping she couldn't sense it. I knew she would. Wives have that ability. They know when they've been cheated on. Some of them just don't want to admit it to themselves, but they all know. 

By the time I got back, Leo was half awake, sitting on the edge of the bed. I could tell he had no freaking clue about what had happened. I handed him his fresh suit, and fixed him some toast and coffee. He thanked me as usual. We went to work. 

It was about ten thirty that he came in to my little cubicle of an office. "Margaret," he began gravely. "We gotta talk." I followed him into his office, shutting the door behind me hesitantly. 

"Yes, sir?" I asked, hoping that I sounded in the dark and innocent. 

He started pacing, and he glanced up at me every now and again. He'd open his mouth to speak, but then close it, and start pacing again. Finally, he stopped, and just stared at me, with those lost, bloodshot eyes. 

"I remember last night," he blurted out, awkwardly, as if he'd wanted to say more but was cut off. 

I shook my head in disbelief. Of all the nights for him to remember. "Sir, what do you remember?" I asked cautiously. 

"Not much. Everything that counts," he answered shakily. "Margaret, I. . . I'm sorry. I can't-" He stopped abruptly. I didn't' know why. "I'm so sorry." 

"For what?" He didn't seem to remember anything clearly. If there was a chance I could convince him that nothing happened. . . "You came to my apartment the same as you've come the last few weeks, sir." 

He looked at me, confused. "But, we. . . didn't we?" 

"Didn't we what, sir?" I hoped to high hell he was buying my 'confused' façade. 

Leo laughed nervously, and reached into his pocket. "I'm just tense," he muttered, trying to shake a pill into his hand. They all fell, skittering across his open palm and onto the carpeting. "Damn." Bending down to pick them up, he instructed me to go fetch him a glass of water. 

I stood fast. 

When he stood up, he stared at me as if I had grown a second head. "Margaret. Go get me a glass of water." 

"Sir, I won't." I was finished standing back, I was finished with being a bystander to it. I would have no longer have a part in his addictions. He could fire me, but the next secretary he got wouldn't be able to cover his ass half as well, and he knew it. I could no longer justify it, and I could no longer say that it wasn't any of my business, because right now, it was my business. He cheated on his wife, with me. By accident, but he did nonetheless. 

I'd been a party to this for too long. It was time to stop. 

"Margaret. Get me a glass of water." His voice was low, threatening. 

I shook my head. "Get it yourself." When he didn't say anything, I walked back to my office, and shut the door behind me. There was nothing hesitant about it this time. 

A good half hour passed before I heard his other door slam shut. Curious, I walked over to the door that connected his office with mine. Putting my ear to the thick wood door, I heard nothing. Cautiously, I opened the door, and peered inside. Nobody there, and his trusty brown leather briefcase was missing, too. Walking in, I noticed a sheet of paper on his desk, with red letters on it. 

It read: 

"Gone to Manchester, to see a friend.  
Cancel appointments for the week. 

-McGarry" 

Two days later, I got a call from the governor of New Hampshire; that was Leo's 'friend'. He was calling to tell me that Leo was checking himself into rehab. I asked if I should call Jenny, and he told me he'd taken care of that already. I told him I'd take care of things down in DC. He asked that I keep it under the radar that he'd be going to a rehab center. I told him that I'd make 'em believe he was visiting family. We were all business. 

Then he hung up. I pulled together some paperwork, drew up everything that needed drawn up. Ten minutes later, Mr. Leo McGarry, Secretary of Labor, was officially on vacation. Family emergency, as the reason; indefinite, as the time period. Plausible enough, as the press usually left him alone and nobody would really look into it. And if they did, I'd just deflect them. Simple as that. 

I sat back. I surveyed my handiwork. I picked the papers up. I took them to the copier, then the fax. I filed them away, cancelled all his appointments, called everyone involved (told them the family emergency story, no need to tell his life to everyone, right?). 

I went home. I drove in a daze, barely aware of the light midday traffic, barely aware of the lights and the pedestrians. In retrospect, I'm surprised I didn't cause an accident. But I went home. I took off my shoes, and I got a glass of water. I drank it, and thought vaguely in the back of my mind that if he ever needs a glass of water, ever again, I'll get it for him. Then I lay down on my bed, and stared up at the ceiling. 

I cried. 

-end- 


End file.
